The Wandering Mind of Hershey St John
by Ciella
Summary: Hershey is a woman of her own mind, in a loving marriage and surrounded by friends. She just hopes Drago stays out of her life for good! Hershey x Geoffrey smut with a plot


I think people kind of lie about areas that are "dangerous." Sometimes I think it's code for racists to say that "they", as "those people" live there. Other times, I think they're trying to politely suggest that I shouldn't go to a certain place alone, that it's culturally inappropriate for a woman to go unescorted. But with a history like mine, the things I _know_ to be dangerous are rarely the things people are worried about. When I walked home at night with Drago, yeah I was "safe" in public, I was escorted by a man. And yeah, nobody in their right minds would approach him. But then I walked home with my abuser, unlocked the door for him, and locked myself inside with him.

My mom especially worries when I go out late at night by myself. She doesn't really like Geoffrey, but she likes that he's big, and of course, male. It makes her feel safer. Geoffrey gets pretty upset when I walk home, too, especially because he knows about Drago, but he also doesn't want to become that person in my life. Besides, I'm just the kind of person that if you tell me that I can't do something, I'll do it just to spite you.

So I'm walking home after drinks with some friends, and I'm ok. Really, I'm ok. Buzzed, but passing for totally sober. We left before the bars closed to avoid getting stuck with the other bar crawlers, especially the college kids, as they get kind of annoying when they get sloppy, fighting, crying, and vomiting on the sidewalk. There aren't that many years between us, which is weird to think about. I continue past the children's hospital, grease truck falafel on my breath, and I mistake the shadow I cast with the help of a streetlamp for being someone close behind. I glance over my shoulder, never stopping, a quick stride of practiced nonchalance.

We've been moving around a lot ever since we came out as a couple. Geoffrey was afraid for both of us, for our reputations and our jobs, given that "office" romance is strictly not ok, especially between servicemen and -women of different ranks. I was more worried that, as my commanding officer, he would be accused of taking advantage of his subordinate; as it turns out, it mostly became a series of BDSM jokes my friends regularly make. Now, I don't know how he did it- my man is kind of a magician- but he managed to win Elias over, and we managed to get joint placement wherever we serve. It probably helps that we're usually traveling, as in, out of the eyes of our superiors. We're not "setting a bad example", so to speak. That, and even Elias has a heart. He must realize that even a supposedly frigid commander like Geoffrey needs a regular lay. (Hell, I'd be having sex every day if he were up for it.)

I round the corner, past the unisex salon with the gaudy neon lights. Some drunk college kid comments on my hair. Was it was a compliment? It's hard to tell the guys who think short hair is cute from the ones who fetishize it, and the latter are real weirdos, trust me. It's after midnight, so even Hamilton Street isn't very busy, and I jaywalk right after the traffic light. Somebody's puppy is always crying, and part of me wants to go and rescue it from the people who clearly neglect it, while part of me wants to beat those puppy-neglecting motherfuckers up. Geoffrey doesn't want a dog, because he's a heartless jerk. He's sitting at the table when I open the door to our apartment.

"Hey, there you are," he says, acting calm. My eyes run a quick sweep of the room. It's too clean; he's been nesting anxiously while waiting for me to get home safely. "How was everybody?"

"They're ok," I shrug honestly, taking my shoes off and putting them next to his, heels together. "They always talk about the same things, I can't really get into it."

"Like what?"

I sigh, tipsy and exasperated, wagging my head with each phrase. "Bunnie goes on and on about being engaged, Sally bemoans that she's not engaged. Amy bitches about not being in a relationship, Julie-su bitches about being tied down."

"Too much relationship stuff?"

"Way too much relationship stuff." I surprise him, pushing him back in his chair and making a seat for myself in his lap. What can I say? I'm a cat. If I fit, I sit! "I want to hear about their accomplishments. I want to hear about their parents, school, work, whatever! But I really want to stop hearing about all the problems they have with men."

He looks at me with this special face he has just for me. I like to think of it as his true face. Most people only see him yelling, his expression stoic, eyes stony, veins bulging in his neck and forehead. But with me in his lap, even just complaining about a night out, he's completely different. There's a warmth to his face that I wish everyone could see, because if they could, the world would fall in love with him. He gets these big apple cheeks when he smiles at me, a ruddy man until the white fur mask. His eyes twinkle softly, a pearly, icy blue, with a light emanating from the prism of his pupil. I hold his cheeks in my hands as he looks dreamily back at me, kissing his soft, whiskery muzzle.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles seconds after. Shifting my balance slightly, I know I'm sitting on an erection.

"Don't be sorry," I can't help but smile. "Were you thinking about me?"

"Not more so than any other day. I'm just really horny today, I guess," he tries to laugh at himself. He's still shy with me, and I can't decide if I like that. Sometimes I wish he were more forceful, but then I'm afraid that it might trigger things that I want to keep forgetting. That's one thing Bunnie and Julie-su kept complaining about: how horny their men were. Bunnie seemed kind of into the aggressive pursuit; her complaints had this air of being for show, like the wood pattern plastered onto so many plastic school desks. She blushed and got steamy-eyed just complaining about Antoine pushing her down onto their bed, leaving bite marks on her neck, and taking her over and over again. Julie-su, by contrast, was pretty bitter. It sounded like Knuckles was only into one or two kinds of sex, and they were all very vanilla. Julie-su had gotten bored with vanilla, and she was really trying to stick it out for another flavor.

This became a problem, as Sally wasn't having enough sex, and Amy wasn't having sex at all. Honestly, it's a lost cause. Sally's in a dead-end relationship, and Amy's completely wrong- in my opinion- for wanting her man. Any guy who is constantly running is going to eventually have problems with his little friend. It might be ED, it might be loss of libido, it might be reduced sperm count. Whatever it is, Sally's not getting enough, and I seriously think she should dump that loser, but she gets upset when I tell her so. And I'm like, Amy, why do you want a man who's clearly not capable of giving either of you what you want? The short version of her answer is that she's a lost cause, totally and hopelessly in love with a charismatic boob with a limp noodle.

Geoffrey clears his throat. "Like I said, I'm really sorry. I'll take care of this and be right back."

"No, no, not you! I got lost in my thoughts. Come on." I get up, my hand disappearing in his big paws. We make our way to the bedroom together, undressing, curling up on our bed, kissing and groping until somebody starts grinding on the other. One of my favorite parts of sex with him is actually the moment of penetration, the only time he has this particularly vulnerable expression. His jaw gets all slack and his eyes get huge, as if he just saw something wonderful and amazing. Then he leans in with his whole body as he continues to penetrate me, physically and emotionally powerful, like a homecoming.

We're that couple that changes positions a few times, not afraid to make mistakes as we figure out what works for us. He's afraid, albeit a little less so every time. It can't be easy to be such a large man, making love with a small woman that another large man once battered. He moved so gingerly the first few times we made love that neither of us orgasmed. He barely thrusted during those sessions, holding his body aloft on his knees and elbows, terrified of crushing me or making me bleed. I remember his shame as his erection eventually dwindled, and we cuddled for hours as we talked about what we could do better next time.

We settle into one of our favorites, the spooning position. It takes the pressure off of both of us. I don't feel like I have to perform or be artificially sexy for him, like I sometimes do in missionary, which rarely hits the right spots for me. He doesn't feel like he's going to exert too much force, like he sometimes does when I ask him to take me from behind. He gently grips my hip, my body at something like a forty-five degree angle to his, and I relax as he massages different parts of my body individually. He folds his fingers into the underside of my knee, something he's never done before, and lifts my leg enough for greatly improved access. I cry out, "Yes!" and contract around him, and he moans beautifully, deeply, in my ear.

Now, I don't know if this is normal- whatever that means- but we tend to talk a lot during sex. Sometimes it's things like, "Do you like this? How about that?" and sometimes it's dirty talk. But sometimes it's just, "Oh, honey, I love you so much," and "I'm so glad you talk like an Ozzie when you fuck me!" And he does- his accent has gotten a little more Americanized in the past couple years, but when he's really getting into it, there's no mistaking his roots. And it's. So. Fucking. Hot.

After I orgasm twice, the sounds he's making start to get deeper and deeper. That's how I know he's almost there. Then there's this strain in his voice, an urgent undertone, and I know I need to start mashing the fun button to get in one last climax while he comes. He hugs me as he orgasms, muffling himself with my collarbone. I love the impossible stiffness of a man's body in the exact moment of orgasm. I contract around him once, twice, three times, and the blood begins returning to his body.

"Wow," he pants, after a moment. "I guess you had fun." He sounds very pleased with himself, maybe even tickled.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, for one," he murmurs hotly in my ear, "I love when your voice is breathless like this. But really what I was getting at is that you screamed again."

"What? I did?"

"Yeah!"

"When? What was it like?" I'm fascinated, and he carefully extracts himself from me to reach for the unscented baby wipes we keep on the window sill. He hands me one and uses one himself.

"The last orgasm you had, you made this sound like 'augh!', but you were screaming bloody murder. It makes me think someone will call the cops!"

"Can you blame me? You were awesome."

He smiles, tossing the used wipes into a wastepaper basket we keep by the bed. Then he scoots in closer to cuddle. I love curling into the crook under his arm, my head rising and falling with his breath, my hand rubbing his fuzzy, tight little belly. "You stroke my ego so much," he chuckles, nuzzling the top of my head. "You were telling me about your friends before we got distracted."

"Oh, yeah. Well, most of them are unhappy, and it's almost like they're determined to be unhappy."

"Why?"

"Because they bitch to each other instead of telling their men what they really want."  
Geoffrey sighs quietly. I notice the way his chest moves my head than more than the sound he makes. "Why do some women do that?"

"I don't know. It's easier in the short term."

"Do you ever bitch about me?"

I look up at him, his big, boyish eyes out of place on his stubbly face, with his manly jaw. "Honestly, yes, but not incessantly, and not just about love and sex."

"Do you talk about it with me eventually?"

"Of course. It's just that sometimes I need a soundboard because I'm not sure how to bring it up, or because I'm not ready. It's usually dumb things that annoy me, like when you organize things for me."

"I see." He lets his head recline on the pillow, and I can't see his eyes anymore. It's hard for me to place the tone in his voice, which was purposefully neutral and opaque. That's usually a sign that something hurts or annoys him, but he doesn't want to bother me with it.

"I'm sorry if that upsets you."

He pauses for a long moment, letting out one long, deep breath. "Oh no, I understand that we all need to let off a little steam sometimes. I just feel a little left out. You have your girls, as annoying as they can be. I don't have any mates."

I'm paralyzed. To be honest, I kind of hate when he drops these bombs on me. I feel awful when I think of him as being lonely. He's brilliant, but socially not-quite-there. I know he struggles to make friends for exactly the reasons he climbs the career ladder so quickly. His commanders love him, but his peers and subordinates often don't get past his complete lack of filter. If he thinks you're being rude or inappropriate, he will tell you so, regardless of who you are, what event you're attending, or who you're with. Ironically, one reason he's never gotten along with Sonic is that they're so alike in this regard. They each see it as a virtue in themselves and as a sin in each other.

"That can't be right! What about Wombat?"

"He's down south again, and besides, all he cares about is pining after Amy, who's busy pining after that blue bimbo."

"There's nobody at work?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. I've got my allies and my burned bridges, but nobody to go to the pub with, or who'd want to come over for dinner and a movie."

"Aw, Geoff, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say."

"No, love, I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset you."

I roll on top of him, rubbing my nose against his. "Look. Next time I go out with my friends, I'll ask them to bring their guys along, and we'll all go on one big date. Then you'll see how well you measure up," I laugh, and my heart is light at the sight of him grinning.

"You're the sweetest little kitten, you know that?"

I'm gonna skip ahead here, because all you need to know is that we started getting pretty disgustingly affectionate, and then the refractory period was over, and… well, we had sex again. I totally wore my little man out that night.. He slept like a baby, and I dreamed of grease truck falafel.


End file.
